Chapter 1
Chicago, before moving to Jagoda Bay
“Honor your father and your mother, so that you may have a long life in the land that the Lord your God is giving you. Exodus twenty, twelve.”
Pausing, I waited for the word "father" to sour my taste buds. Instead of doing so, my tongue continued to hold the minty flavor of the peppermint I’d plucked from the crystal plate resting on a long, dark wood table in the narthex, and I resumed prayer.
“I honor my mother. Shannon is a good woman; a saved and spoiled woman that did the best to instill love and respect in a nigga. So, for that, I honor her to the fullest. She will never want for shit. Ever. If she asks for the fucking continent, I’m handing it over on a diamond platter without blinking.
But with the way those Cuppacio boys are working her nerves, I know fo’ sho’ they're going to have to find another place to stay.” I sniggered.
Polished wood and the mix of rich, smoky, and sweet fragrances filled the air as I sat in the middle of the pew in the most sacred part of Metro Chapel Church: the sanctuary.
My eyes scanned the empty pulpit, which in a few days would be swarming with sinners, hypocrites, and some of the worst motherfuckers in the world, hoping and praying that their presence and hefty offering would be seen as good enough for the big nigga upstairs to forgive all the fucked up shit they’ve done in the world. Motherfuckers like me.
Lowering my head, the Jesus piece resting on my chest felt like an anchor, even though it was the lightest and most subtle chain I owned. I’ve been debating having the jeweler make me something a little more flamboyant, flashy, and icy. But I hadn’t had the chance to get around to it yet.
“You can be the worst person in the world. Do so much unforgiving shit. Then you do some good, but that’s all washed out because you’ve done a plethora of bad. That was my father.”
Rubbing my hand down my wavy head, I licked my bottom lip.
When I woke up this morning, I felt the weight of an elephant on my chest. It felt like I couldn’t fucking breathe.
Even after saying my morning prayer, working out, and taking another jog around Ezio’s neighborhood, I still couldn't get my mind right. So, I got dressed and came here. Now, in my stepfather’s church, I was asking for a sign.
“I guess you wondering why is this black-ass nigga in my fucking house talking in circles? Truth be told, I don’t even fucking know.”
Gripping the chipped wood of the pew before me, I squeezed the polished finish and attempted to stand. Feeling a small hand on my shoulder, and her sweet perfume tickling my nostrils, I paused and dropped my head further.
“Son. Tell me what’s wrong?”
Shannon Washington. The woman, who not only gave me life but also showed me enough love to fill this church and the one down the block, stood over me as if she were six feet tall instead of the five feet, four inches that she is.
“What are you doing here, Ma?”
“Well, besides the fact that this is my husband’s church… I saw you on the camera and wanted to stop by and check on you.”
Shannon Washington. The First Lady. The strongest woman I knew, and saying that was a lot because I knew plenty of strong women. To be attached to a Cuppacio, you had to be strong. You had to be strong or you wouldn’t survive.
“I’m good—” I started to lie before she cut me off.
“Don’t lie. Don’t sin in the Lord’s house.”
Sighing, I sat back and held her gaze. Our chocolate eyes mirrored.
I also stole her dark skin and thick, coarse, wavy hair, which traced back to her Somalian roots.
All of my other features, including the sharp noses that my cousins and I shared, came from our Italian lineage.
Some days, I hated that I looked like that nigga, and others, I didn’t mind.
Shit had me confused as fuck that on most days I didn’t hold the same sentiments as my cousins when it came to the niggas whose sacks we were formed from.
Then, there were days when I hated my father just as much as they did.
“I been thinking…” I held eye contact with the most beautiful woman I knew.
She’d been through a lot—more than most her age.
I didn’t know a woman on this earth who had endured what Shannon had, and for her survival, I would always and forever give her anything and everything her heart desired.
As a certified mama’s boy, her feelings would always matter above my own.
Even though I was in this church, her response to my dilemma would be the be-all.
If my mama wasn’t feeling it, then this shit would be pushed to the furthest portion of my mind to never be explored again.
Her sepia orbs held a soft gaze as she continued to wait for my response.
She was patient—my mother had always been patient.
Peering at my twin, I had to fight the emotions coursing through me.
It should be a crime the way I loved this woman.
She was everything to me, and the mere thought of hurting her caused a pang in my chest, one I had to fight to not reach up and soothe.
“I been thinking about reaching out to Sandro’s other son.”
I’d never been the one to beat around the bush.
I didn’t like to leave people guessing. I was a straight shooter.
I meant what I said and said what I meant, holding nothing back.
Games were for children, and even when I was a jit, I’d been a grown-ass man.
Being forced to grow up way before my time would do that to you.
When I should have been running in the grass and scraping my knees, I was learning to cook dope and clean bullet wounds.
Studying her expression, I was waiting quietly for the faintest of hesitation. If Shannon said no, then that’s what it was. Didn’t too much shit move in my world without her blessing.
“Sandro’s other son…” she spoke just above a whisper.
Sandro Cuppacio.
The man she’d gone half with to create me.
The man who I hated out loud most days, but missed in private on others.
The Cuppacio Mob had been a ruthless and heartless organization, and while Sandro was just as vindictive as his family members, he lived a whole other life that many were oblivious to.
He’d fathered a child outside of the organization.
One that I vaguely remembered, even though I’d only seen him once during my childhood.
“You not with it, hunh?” I asked.
Shaking my head, I knew better than to bring up old wounds with my mother. She was a saved woman and had done well for herself. She’d married a preacher even though her son and nephews did ungodly things by the hour.
“Son.” My mother reached for my face, held my chin in her soft, warm hands, and gave a half smile. “You’re such a good man,” she cooed.
“But I’m not, Mama. I’m not good. I don’t think I’ll ever be good.”
And I was okay with that. I’d done some sinful shit, and I was far from being done with sinning. That shit was just in me.
“Shio, doing bad things doesn’t make you a bad person.
Sinning doesn’t make you a sinner. Your intentions do.
You always lead with pure intentions, son.
You do the right thing even when no one else is looking.
You stand behind your family no matter what, and you still have room to accept Jesus as your Lord and Savior.
That is what makes you a good man, son.”
Standing, I towered over her and swept her up into my embrace.
Her gorgeous face barely reached my chin.
My mother knew all the right things to say to make me feel whole when a nigga always felt empty.
What she said next brought a different feeling, though—one of approval and acceptance of my circumstances.
“Go get Tunan. After all, he is your brother.”